


i'm still on that tightrope

by spaceprincessem



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceprincessem/pseuds/spaceprincessem
Summary: These were his hands of healing and he was going to fucking fix his mother’s garden because he would not let Void win.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155





	i'm still on that tightrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badbrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/gifts).



> Well, well, well, look who wrote yet another post 3B Void Stiles fic again? Yes, it is me. I know. I know you do not need to tell me I know.
> 
> Anyway, this is a special birthday fic for my bestie reece. Y'all mind if i have feels on main for a sec? Cool. Happy birthday reece!!!!! I am so happy to have met you and it means so much to me that you thought my silly little gay ranch fic was cool enough to ask me about. Thank you for letting me bounce snippets and ideas off of. You make me a better writer and i love ya so much 🥺
> 
> okay anyway, please no one @ me about what plants can grow in California just let it be a magical garden okay, thanks.

The first time Stiles heard the phrase _it’s always darkest before the dawn_ he had been nine years old, sitting in a chair that was too big, his feet dangling above the faded sea-foam green tile of his school’s counselor's office. It had been his _third_ panic attack of the week and instead of calling his dad like he’d begged them to, the teachers just sent him down the long walk to the room no one ever really used. And for those who had been sent on this doomed journey, well, at least he was used to his lunch table only being a party of two.

“Stiles,” the woman whose smile seemed a touch too fake would tsk, “we can’t keep calling your dad every time you have an episode.”

Stiles refused to meet her eyes, instead keeping his gaze focused on his hands as he wrung them together until they hurt. The pain was as close as he could get to feeling grounded in reality.

“We have to acknowledge our feelings, good and bad, and learn how to deal with them.” She continued with a small sigh that Stiles easily recognized as disappointment. “You know, they say it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

Stiles still didn’t look up, instead he chewed on his lower lip, wishing they would just call his dad and let him go home. Not that home was the first place he wanted to be, but at least he could have his breakdown in the privacy of his own room. Where the cruel and watchful eyes of the other kids wouldn’t pin him with looks that wavered between pity and mockery. He didn’t need some weird metaphor or recycled saying to help him figure out how he was supposed to deal with his grief. 

He just needed his fucking mom to be alive.

“One day,” the counselor sighed again and Stiles could see her pinching the bridge of her nose like she was annoyed, “you’ll understand.”

Nearly nine years later Stiles stood on the small deck that overlooked the abandoned backyard of his childhood, realizing what complete and utter _bullshit_ that all was. It was the beginnings of summer, the late nights still clinging to a chill that would soon be washed away by the heat of the day. It was nearly sunrise and Stiles realized the darkness was all the fucking same. He released a small breath of air between his teeth, mindlessly counting over his fingers before he felt the slight tremble in his exhausted body ease up. Another night, another nightmare. It was the same, no matter how many days and weeks had passed. It was the same fucking game. Stiles would stay up as late as possible, putting off sleep until he had practically passed out from exhaustion on top of his covers. He would awaken mere hours later screaming until his throat was raw from the effort. Some days his dad would shake him from his terror. Most nights he was all alone. He got the distinct feeling that his father had migrated towards the night shift more just to avoid hearing his son falling apart. 

Stiles sat down on one of their old lawn loungers. The cushion was faded and yellowed by the weather, but Stiles could still see the shapes of lemons that made up the summer printed pattern. His mother had loved the pops of color it gave their dark, stained deck and his father just hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it when she died. It was sort of lumpy and kind of cold, but anywhere was better than his room. Everything had felt too big, like his husk of a person couldn’t fill the never ending spaces without stretching himself too thin. 

_He was already stretched too thin._

And now he was just left with this lingering emptiness and an affinity to mindlessly count his fingers until they became numb. He laid back, eyes catching the last glittering shine of stars in the night sky. This small patch of earth, fenced in by bright, cherry red wood, used to be a haven of sorts. Holy ground. Stiles would spend hours imagining he was something cool like a cowboy or an astronaut, as he ran, breathlessly through the sea of colors his mother had taken pride in planting. Scott would be right at his heels, mimicking exotic bird calls and jaguar roars as they waded through patches of green, leaves the size of their heads fanning them in shade. Every spring as the first few sprays of rain would soak the ground his mother would pull him out into the garden, teaching him her secrets. He would dig holes for seeds, fingernails black from the rich soil. He would fill her baby blue water can to the brim, sloshing water over the sides as he carried it back to her. He would pull carrots from the ground, licking his lips in anticipation for her famous carrot cake slathered in cream cheese frosting. 

_“Mom,” Stiles asked, eyes wide with anxiety, fingers clutching to the handful of daisies he had pulled only a few moments ago, “who will take care of your garden?”_

_Claudia smiled as she carefully filled a paper cup with water, gently taking the bouquet of flowers from her son, laying them in the water before setting the cup on the table next to her hospital bed. She then opened her arms, beckoning him to come forward. She tried not to wince as he hovered hesitantly, like he was afraid of her._

_Because he was._

_He swallowed his fear, deciding it was safe because she wasn’t screaming. She remembered. He climbed onto the bed, sighing as she carded her fingers through his short hair._

_“You, my Little Mischief, will take care of my garden.” She said as she pressed a kiss to his forehead._

_“But what if everything dies?” Stiles asked, his voice high with panic, nails digging into the palm of his hand, leaving little crescent marks in his skin._

_Claudia took his hands in her own, Stiles noted how cold and brittle they were and he tried not to shiver at her touch. She softly kissed each knuckle. “These hands are for healing, Little Mischief.”_

She had been wrong, of course. Stiles’ hands weren’t for healing and he had let the garden die. The day after his mom’s funeral when his father was passed out in the chair, an empty bottle in his hand, Stiles had sat on the bottom step of the porch, knees pulled up to his chest. He stared out into the garden, a light drizzle of rain making him shiver. It suddenly felt so enormous, like it was vast and never ending. How was he supposed to take care of something he would inevitably get lost in? His body began to shake with sobs, his hands digging into his eyes. He was already letting her down and she hadn’t even been buried for twelve hours. Some of the flowers returned the next year, their roots embedded in the soil, poised to outlive the remaining two Stilinski members. Stiles supposed he should have been happy to see them, but, really, it just seemed unfair that something so delicate, so beautiful got to bloom from the ashes while his mom remained a rotting corpse in the ground.

After years of neglect the flowers all died out, paving the way for weeds and invasive species to capitalize on the wasteland that was once considered holy. Stiles watched the sun rise over the cracked earth, the weeds billowing in the warm air. It had been a dry summer and Stiles swore he heard the weatherman mention something about an unavoidable drought in their future. He closed his eyes against the bright rays, not wanting to look at the hideous jungle staring back at him. Maybe if his hands had been made for healing he could have saved the garden. Maybe if his hands had been made for healing he could have saved Allison.

* * *

“Sidelined?” Stiles cried in outrage, ignoring the uncomfortable shifts from the rest of the pack standing behind him. He was furious, jaw trembling as he resisted the urge to count his fingers.

Derek was an immovable object. An unstoppable force. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, face poised with a seriousness that told Stiles there was no room for argument. But Stiles had never been one to give in easily. 

“You can’t sideline me.” Stiles snarled as he took a step in Derek’s direction.

“Yes,” Derek growled back, “I can.”

Stiles rolled his tongue over his teeth before swallowing hard. Hadn’t he proven his worth? He’d done most of the damn research, why was he the only one forced to stay behind? He wasn’t _weak_ . He wasn’t. He could fight. That’s all he’d done the past few years. Fight and crawl and fucking _survive_ because that’s what this town had turned him into. A survivor. He was the only one - _the only one left_ \- that was still human. He didn’t have werewolf strength or banshee screams, but he was still fucking here. He threw his friends a look of betrayal, because no one was backing him up. He was _fine_ and _capable_. He didn’t deserve to be sidelined.

“Well,” Scott began meekly, because he was the only one who was weak to Stiles’ gaze, “maybe if just sticks with me-”

“No.” Derek’s eyes flashed red.

“Fuck you.” Stiles said, shoving at the alpha.

Derek barely moved, bracing himself against Stiles’ hands that were now gripping the front of his shirt tightly. Stiles wanted to scream and beat his fist against Derek’s chest. He wanted the pack to stop looking at him like he was some fragile creature on the edge of crumbling into nothing. He wanted to thrust himself right into the danger because the sickening addiction to the adrenaline high was surely better than whatever the hell he was currently feeling. He wanted their hands to…

 _Their_ hands.

 _His_ hands.

_“These hands are for healing, Little Mischief.”_

He suddenly felt sick, his grip loosening. He kept his eyes on the ground because he could feel the burning looks from the pack behind him. And he kept his eyes on the ground because he knew Derek’s grey-greens had softened in the corners ever so slightly, a look of understanding - _of solidarity_ \- because Derek Hale knew what it felt like to be unraveled by guilt and the monsters of Beacon Hills. And really, what was Stiles thinking? He probably looked like a walking, rotting corpse. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept longer than four hours. He was barely eating. He was a survivor, but at what fucking cost?

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled as he shoved his hands into his pockets, cheeks flushing with shame, “I’ll just go.”

“ _Stiles_.”

And Stiles wished the flutter in his heart, the tingle of warmth running up his spine at the way Derek said his name made a fucking difference. But Stiles was still splintered in pieces, trying to discern the _me_ from the _we_ that had been drilled in his head over and over for weeks on end. He offered Scott a weak smile as he passed by his best friend, trying not to think of how he held Allison in his arms as she took her dying breath. He vomited on the pavement as soon as he got outside, a small, quiet voice reminding him that while it may not have been _me_ that killed Allison it had been _we_ and that, for some goddamn reason, almost felt worse. 

* * *

He woke in a cold sweat, legs tangled in a blanket, knuckles white from the way he gripped the faded floral printed material of the living room couch. It was dark outside and Stiles could just make out the end credits of some television show he couldn’t remember watching. His eyes moved down to his phone sitting on the floor. No new text or calls. It had only been about two hours since he had left the loft. He hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. He vaguely wondered how the pack was fairing against their latest supernatural threat. He pulled himself from the blanket, shaking off his latest nightmare. 

It was almost a game. Which nightmare would plague him this time? Would he be in the basement of Echo House? Trapped in the locker? Stuck under the MRI machine as Void pounded on the plastic walls? Would he be killing Allison again? Or maybe this time it was Scott. Or his father. Or Lydia. Or Derek. In the end it didn’t matter. In the end he would still wake up screaming, terrified of closing his eyes. In the end he would still count his fingers, separating the lines between himself and Void. In the end he would still be the same fucking person who was crawling towards some sort of invisible line that, when crossed, would allow him to feel okay again. 

He stumbled outside, the sticky heat of the end of the day melting into a dry evening. There had been a promise of rain, but the grey clouds had hung pathetically in the sky, offering no such break from the drought. The backyard was still wild with weeds, a dark and looming jungle that painfully reminded Stiles of the chaotic shadows devouring the confines of his mind. He could feel the tumultuous wave of anger that always seemed to be stewing beneath the surface rising up to swallow him. He was suddenly kneeling in front of one of the beds, his fingers wrapping around the weeds, pulling them with all his might. 

_We must rip them root and stem_

No. Not we. These were his hands. These were his hands of healing and he was going to fucking fix his mother’s garden because he would not let Void win. The ground was cracked and dry, but he dug into the earth anyway. His skin ripped, and bruised, and bled, but he didn’t stop. The pain was cathartic in a way as he moved across the bed, tears stinging his eyes as he tore the unwelcomed plants for the ground. Why couldn’t it just rain? Why couldn’t the universe just throw him a fucking bone and allow a little bit of kindness to help him get better? Why couldn’t he stop the sudden burst of anger and haunting feeling of _nothing_ that always followed?

He leaned back on his heels, his hands aching terribly as he gazed up into the hazy, night sky. “Please,” he begged of the clouds that weren’t there, “just a little bit of rain.”

He laughed, wiping at his nose, no wonder Derek had sidelined him. He was a fucking mess. He laid back into the grass, but refused to close his eyes. He knew what he would see. The sight of the garden hose curled in the corner by the shed made his eyebrow raise slightly. 

_“It’s okay to ask for help,” his mother chided gently as she carefully turned the water on, “sometimes we all need a little bit of help.”_

Stiles was on his feet, shaking hands reaching out for the rusted handle. He quickly turned it a few notches, holding his breath as he waited for the old thing to splutter to life. For one, awful moment, he thought it was dead, just like everything else in this house, but the sound of rushing water was a small relief. A victory he hadn’t realized he desperately needed. It smelled like childhood and he was tempted to bring the water to his lips, because, for some reason it _always_ tasted better from the garden hose. But that could have just been the nostalgia talking. He dragged it over to the bed he had been rooting through, letting the cool water splash against the hard surface. He watched as it soaked into the cracks, darkening the earth. 

“Stiles?”

And Stiles couldn’t stop the smallest of smiles from curling against the corners of his lips. Another victory, he supposed. He didn’t turn as Derek came up next to him, but he didn’t need to really see Derek to know that he was okay. To know the pack had, yet again, survived another supernatural encounter.

“Your hands.” Derek noted gently.

Stiles remembered how they had been clenched in rage against Derek’s shirt, wanting to push and fight and hurt. Their current condition was his penance because it was _his_ hands that cried to do all of those things.

“It hasn’t rained.” Stiles said, like they were having a perfectly normal conversation about the weather. 

Derek didn’t humor him with a response, but instead placed his hands over Stiles’ cracked and bleeding ones. He hummed softly as the ach eased away. He felt he didn’t deserve such kindness, especially from Derek, but he could still hear his mother’s voice ringing in his head. 

_“Sometimes we all need a little bit of help.”_

And Stiles was tired of feeling alone.

* * *

“Seriously,” Scott moaned as he rubbed his eyes, his mouth straining from the urge to resist a yawn, “did we have to get up so early?”

Stiles ignored Scott, deciding not to mention the small fact that he hadn’t slept at all, so getting up early, as Scott had put it, was neither here nor there for him. He felt like he was on a never ending roller coaster. Somedays his nightmares were bearable, giving him just the smallest breath of rest and others would terrify him so badly he was left lying out on the lemon lounger counting his fingers until he couldn’t see straight. At least all of the weeds were gone. That’s why he had dragged Scott to the farmers market at seven am. He was in search of something that could bring life to Claudia’s garden again. He somehow got it into his head if he could get something - _anything_ \- to grow then maybe he would be okay. 

He also asked Scott to come because they hadn’t hung out just the two of them since, well, it had been a while. He half expected his best friend to say _no_ and hang up the phone as soon as Stiles had called him. Or just ignore him completely. But here Scott was, sitting in the passenger seat of his trusted jeep, tried and slightly put out, but here nonetheless. It made Stiles believe that maybe, just maybe, Scott was missing him too. 

“My mom said to pick up some raspberry jam from this stand that I suddenly can not remember the name of.” Scott snorted in amusement as Stiles placed the jeep into park. “I’m sure there can’t be that many jam stands, right?”

“Right.” Stiles agreed as he slid out of his seat.

He knew things were going to be awkward for a little while. It was like he had been thrust back at the starting line for all of his relationships. Stiles was trying to figure out how to be normal, how to be himself, and everyone else was just tiptoeing around him. It was a cruel mixture of fear and pity that kept him at arms length from his pack and neither side really knew how to deal with the pain, let alone heal from it. 

“So,” Scott drew out the word as they walked, a small distance between them, “what are you looking for?”

“Seeds.” Stiles answered as he tried not to Scott’s rigid posture and careful glances bother him.

“Seeds?” Scott asked with a raised eyebrow. “For what?”

“Um,” Stiles ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the end of his messy locks, “do you remember my mother’s garden?” Scott nodded his head, eyes softening. Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well, I figured I wanted to try and grow stuff in it again, you know because…”

He trailed off not really knowing how to explain why he was doing what he was doing. He just needed something to prove that he wasn’t a fucking monster. That his hands could be used for good. That he and Void were not the _same_. 

“Sunflowers,” Scott insisted with a half smile as he bumped his shoulder into Stiles’, “you should plant sunflowers.”

Stiles felt a small warmth, a flutter of something he could almost consider _hope_ as Scott stayed in his gravity, their shoulders still touching. He worried his lip between his teeth not wanting to ruin this moment or break whatever spell had fallen over them.

“Why sunflowers?” Stiles finally asked.

Scott shrugged before murmuring, “Allison loved sunflowers.”

And that was this unspoken thing between them. Between Stiles and Scott. Between Stiles and the pack. Between Stiles and his dad. Between Stiles and every fucking person in this godforsaken town.

Between Stiles and himself.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter what happened or where they ended up, it will always, _always,_ be their fault that Allison Argent had turned to ash. And Stiles could separate himself from Void all he wanted, but the damage had already been fucking done. 

“Sunflowers” Stiles rolled the word around on his tongue, weighing it like it was the most important decision in the world. He lightly traced over his fingers, the numbers sounding off in his head. It wasn’t much and it would never be enough to make up for what had been done, but maybe it was a start.

And when they returned to the house Stiles half expected Scott to leave, but his best friend wordlessly grabbed a small shovel, working quietly next to Stiles’ side until every seed they had bought from the market was planted.

“It hasn’t rained.” Stiles noted softly when they finished.

“No,” Scott agreed, his baby browns gazing at the tilled soil carefully folded over the sunflower seeds, “it hasn’t.”

Stiles knew what Scott was thinking because he was thinking it too. It was unfair that something so small, so fallible could bloom from the depths of the earth, but the people they loved would just remain a rotting corpse.

* * *

And it was never enough. The raw splintering feeling burning its way up his throat as he choked on his own screams. It was never enough to grip the sheets so tightly his nails tore through the fabric, limbs becoming a tangled mess as he fought to get free. It was never enough to take a shuddering, gasping breath, eyes blinking open into the darkness to realize that getting better was harder than staying alive. And it was never enough that the only sound to follow was the beating of his ceiling fan and the brush of his fingers as he counted over and over again. Until the trembling stopped. Until it was enough.

But, it was never really enough.

A flash of lightning followed by a booming clap of thunder had him vaulting from his bed, fingers digging under the wood of his window to pry it open. He leaned outside, eyes appraising the sky, waiting - _desperately waiting_ \- for the fucking rain to fall. His heart was pounding in his chest, sounding to the beat of his fan and he waited. But there was no rain. Just the dark clouds brightening in shades of pale pink and hot white as thunder cannoned in the distance. Stiles inhaled sharply through his nose, blowing the hot air between his teeth. He left the window open as he stumbled into the hallway. It was the middle of summer and they hadn’t seen a single drop of rain. It was the middle of summer and Stiles Stilinski was still the same broken husk of a human since Void had spat him out all those months ago. 

He stopped just in front of the garden, a small breath of warmth blooming in his chest as he looked out at what he’d done. It was nothing like what his mother had achieved, but it was a start and he’d done it all on his own, with Scott’s occasional helping hand. He softly huffed, dragging his thumb across his lower lip. He tried his best to keep everything alive, but the summer dry, summer heat was almost too much and he could see some of the flowers beginning to wilt. He quietly filled his mother’s old blue watering can, carefully giving to those that needed it most. When he was done he sat down by the bed of carrots, their green tops poking up from the grown beautifully. He pulled a small, wicker basket close, steadily filling it with his harvest. Working in the garden kept his hands busy, his mind focused and away from the nightmares. 

_“Don’t you dare eat that pepper Little Mischief!” His mother laughed as she wrestled him in her arms, his shrieking laughter filling the sweet, summer air._

_“But mom!” He argued as he clutched the beautiful bright red pepper close to his chest._

_“You will regret it!” She laughed as she finally grabbed a hold of it. “Those are hot peppers, Little Mischief.”_

_“Fine,” he relented, pouting as she placed it back in the basket from where he stole it, “but can we make carrot cake?”_

_Claudia kissed his cheek as she guided his hands to the green shooting up from the depths of the soil. “Yes, but we must gather them first.”_

“Stiles?”

Stiles didn’t look up from his work, hands still gently digging into the soil until he could see the dark, rusted orange peeking up at him. He’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat, but there was no way of getting around the inevitability that was this feeling of _something_ where Derek Hale was concerned. Too bad Stiles was just about the worst thing for Derek. The straw to break the camel’s back so to speak.

“What are you doing out here?” Derek asked as he moved closer and god, could Stiles feel the famous Hale eyebrow raise.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He responded in a tone that was light with amusement. 

“I was looking for you.” Derek was always one to skip straight to the point. There was never really any bullshitting with him, which Stiles both admired and found a little infuriating.

“What terrible creature could possibly be tormenting our wonderful town at this hour?” He asked as he brushed his hands against his jeans, turning to face the wolf fully now.

“I’m not here for research, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Derek stated as he pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was debating whether coming here was worth the headache he would surely get.

“No?” Stiles asked as he swallowed the small lump in his.

“I was just checking in.” Derek answered.

“Checking in?” Stiles repeated the words, like he was looking for some alternative meaning.

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek sighed, “is it really that big of a surprise that I…” he trailed off, his chest expanding as he sucked in a deep breath.

_That I care about you_

If Stiles was being honest, it wasn’t. He and Derek had been dancing around each other for a while now, not really knowing what to do or how to cross that invisible line between them. It was never the right time. They were always taking one step forward and two steps back. They were too busy fighting to know how to feel anything else than the deep, primal urge to survive. 

“Your garden,” Derek nodded his head towards the flowers, “can I have a tour?”

Stiles’ lips curled into a half smile as he got to his feet. Derek brushed against his shoulder, a heat pressed in the space between. Stiles pointed to the sunflowers growing in the back first, clearing the rawness from his throat as his tongue darted out to lick his chapped lips.

“Uh, the sunflowers were Scott’s suggestion,” he explained, “for Allison.” 

He could see Derek give a short nod of his head, casting Stiles a patient look, letting the boy know he was listening.

“Red roses,” Stiles indicated to the bushes in the corner, “for Lydia of course. Milkweed for Erica, because butterflies and bees love them.” He said, his fingers brushing against the soft, pink. “Goldenrod for Isaac,” Stiles pointed to the field of gold blowing in the wind, “and Blackeyed Susans for Scott.”

He could see Derek’s face growing soft, almost fond, and Stiles had to fight off the pricks in the corner of his eyes.

“Succulents for Kira,” he continued as he moved across the beds, “and a cactus garden for Malia.” He reached the part of the garden where the plants weren’t as obvious. “Um hot peppers for Boyd,” he pointed to the bushes hiding the pops of oranges and reds, “and fresh mint for my dad.”

“What are those?” Derek pointed to the wild tangle of flowers scattered in heaps throughout the garden.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his hair as his cheeks burned in the darkness of the late evening. “Purple coneflowers,” he finally said, “they were my mothers favorite, and well, they’re kind of sort of for _you_.”

He didn’t want to look, but Stiles was tired of being afraid so his eyes moved to Derek’s face. He felt his entire body exhale, like it was releasing a breath he’d been holding for fucking ever. Because Derek Hale was smiling and goddamn was it beautiful.

“So,” Derek said, pointing to the carrots, “who are those for?”

“Me.” Stiles answered as he picked up the basket. “You want to help me make a carrot cake?”

Derek chuckled, a deep sound reverberating in his chest. “Stiles, it’s nearly three in the morning.”

“And?” Stiles asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles watched as Derek did that thing where he rolled his eyes, pretending like it was all ridiculous and below him, but Stiles knew from the way the wolf was already leaning into his space that he was waiting for Stiles to take the lead. They moved to the kitchen and Derek waited as Stiles rummaged around the dusty cookbooks for his mother’s recipe. They worked in a peaceful quiet, Derek mixing and Stiles adding ingredients. 

He wasn’t used to not feeling alone.

When the cake was in the oven, the dishes in the sink, Stiles half expected Derek to leave, but the wolf just made himself comfortable on Stiles’ couch as the latter set the timer. Stiles slowly sank down next to Derek, trying not to count his fingers because if this were a dream, he didn’t want to wake up quite yet. It wasn’t until he felt a gentle shake of his shoulder did Stiles blink his eyes open, only to be met with a sea of grey-green.

“Hmm?” Stiles asked as he slowly sat up. He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep. He hadn’t realized he hadn’t dreamed.

“The cake is ready.” Derek said with a bemused smile on his face.

“Cake,” Stiles said groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “right, yes, the cake.” He got to his feet, moving back towards the kitchen, a small frown on his face, “Why did you let me fall asleep?”

Derek shrugged nonchalantly, “You looked peaceful.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say so he just pulled the cake from the oven, placing it on a cooling rack before starting on the frosting. Derek watched from the table, arms crossed over his chest comfortably. Stiles slathered the frosting on, licking his lips in anticipation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had his mother’s carrot cake. He cut a generous piece for himself and Derek, passing the wolf the cake and a fork. 

“Thanks.” Derek said like it was perfectly normal to be eating carrot cake at four in the morning. 

“My mom and I used to make this all the time,” Stiles said as he watched the fork easily slide through the layers, “it was my favorite part of summer.”

“You’ve done a good job,” Derek said after a moment, “the garden is nice.”

Stiles laughed, “Never thought I would be standing in my kitchen eating carrot cake while Derek Hale complimented my garden.”

Derek laughed. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah.” Stiles said as he finally took a bite. He hated that he wanted to cry. But he couldn’t stop thinking about his hands - _his hands_ \- had finally created instead of destroyed. 

“Hey,” Derek said as he nodded his head towards the back door, “I think it’s raining.”

Stiles followed Derek, pulling the door open, the pitter patter of rain against the deck a soft and magical sound. Stiles reached his hands out, letting the cool water splash against his skin. 

“Finally,” Stiles said with a small laugh, hands still out stretched in the rain, “maybe the garden will survive now. Maybe it will be okay.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, reaching his hand into the gentle drizzle, “I think we’ll be okay.”

For once, Stiles thought so too. 

**Author's Note:**

> heh. okay thank you for reading 🥺 please let me know your thoughts


End file.
